“This is the third time I’ve come in here for my records. I want them now!”
Mrs. Ziegler’s hand shot out and swept the top of the receptionist’s desk clean. There was the jolting shatter of glass and pottery as pens, papers, picture frames, and coffee mugs crashed to the floor.
The dozen or so patients waiting in the room froze in their chairs, stunned by the outburst. Most trained their eyes on the magazines before them, afraid to acknowledge the scene being acted out before their eyes.
Marissa winced at the sound of the breaking glass. She remembered the clock radio she had so wanted to smash not half an hour earlier. It was frightening to recognize in Mrs. Ziegler such a kindred spirit. There had been several times Marissa had felt equally pushed to the edge.
Robert’s initial response to the situation was to step directly in front of Marissa and put himself between her and the hysterical patient. When he saw Mrs. Ziegler make a move around the desk, he feared she was about to attack the poor receptionist. In a flash, he shot forward and caught Mrs. Ziegler from behind, gripping her at the waist.
“Calm down,” he told her, hoping to sound commanding as well as soothing.
As if expecting such interference, Mrs. Ziegler twisted around and swung her sizable Gucci purse in a wide arc. It hit Robert on the side of his face, splitting his lip. Since the blow did not dislodge Robert’s grip, Mrs. Ziegler cocked her arm for yet another swing of the purse.
Seeing the second blow in the making, Robert let go of her waist and smothered her arms in a bear hug. But before he could get a good grip, she hit him again, this time with a clenched fist.
“Ahhhh!” Robert cried, surprised by the blow. He pushed Mrs. Ziegler away. The women who had been sitting in the area fled to the other side of the waiting room.
Massaging his shoulder, which had received the punch, Robert eyed Mrs. Ziegler cautiously.
“Get out of my way,” she snarled.
“This doesn’t involve you.”
“It does now,” Robert snapped The door to the hall burst open as Dr. Carpenter and Dr.
Wingate dashed in. Behind them was a uniformed guard with a
Women’s Clinic patch on his sleeve. All three went directly to Mrs. Ziegler.
Dr. Wingate, director of the clinic as well as head of the in vitro unit, took immediate control. He was a huge man with a full beard and a slight but distinctive English accent.
“Rebecca, what on earth has gotten into you?” he asked in a soothing voice.
“No matter how upset you might be feeling, this is no way to behave.”
“I want my records,” Mrs. Ziegler said.
“Every time I come in here I get the runaround. There is something wrong in this place, something rotten. I want my records. They are mine.”
“No, they are not,” Dr. Wingate corrected calmly.
“They are the Women’s Clinic records. We know that infertility treatment can be stressful, and we even know that on occasion patients displace their frustration on the doctors and the technicians who are trying to help them. We can understand if you are unhappy.
We’ve even told you that if you want to go elsewhere, we will be happy to forward your records to your new physician. That’s our policy. If your new physician wants to give you the records, that’s his decision. The sanctity of our records has always been one of our prized attributes.”
“I’m a lawyer and I know my rights,” Mrs. Ziegler said, but her confidence seemed to falter.
“Even lawyers can occasionally be mistaken,” Dr. Wingate said with a smile. Dr. Carpenter nodded in agreement.
“You are welcome to view your records. Why don’t you come with me and we’ll let you read over the whole thing. Maybe that will make you feel better.”
“Why wasn’t that opportunity offered to me originally?” Mrs.
Ziegler said as tears began to stream down her face.
“The first time I came here about my records, I told the receptionist I had serious questions about my condition. There was never any suggestion